Three new poems in the next edition. I had to withdraw some others, from my pamphlet, due to their rules about always publishing before anyone else.
That might be that, given I don’t have a second collection, as my writing is more or less settled/grounded now.
Harmonic distortion, which is one way I am thinking of what I write (a cadence that might not be unusual but is unnatural for its diction, in writing that does not belong, its music as a sort of grotesque non-thing) may allow the listener to hear the melody even when there in fact is no pitch, music has ceased to exist, by mastery of technique.
Let’s suppose then a poem is that interplay between meaninglessness and distorted music:
poem=music/noise^2
So without noise the poem is undefined, which could be one way of thinking of the front page: its claim that poetry without noise is not art, has no poetic.
In this poem, by Zukofsky, newness exists in an absence of music adding meaning.
What are these songs
straining at sense—
you the consequence?
Anew 10
‘straining’ seems musically unclear, perhaps because of the visual and semantic meaning of the ‘s’ being met by my eyes before my ears due to a potential pun and its audible music (the surprised yet slow tone of the poem make the variation in sibilance somewhat redundant compared to the tight and elegant pattern of ‘s’) being less memorable (all of which is underlined by the closing rhyme and brevity of the poem), so that the torque of the line-break is visible.
In this poem by me, there is an appearance of something similar. I think the cadence of the third line makes it seem thicker, more viscous – interacting with the immiscible meaning of ‘love’ – so that music suggests it itself is a separate layer.
Horizon
— pull out his eyes
Magistrate, judge
the line (not tender milk
but feet) emulsion, love
+ guilt.
not automatist:
the author is trashy AF, but the poems are equal parts amusing and sincere; that probably makes them avant garde!
is the past still IRL?
I am much more pleased with it than my earlier poems
Taking the top of your head off | IT (internationaltimes.it)
1/, tests by Luke Emmett (Litter Press) | Tears in the Fence
Luke Emmett’s collection of poems from Leafe Press | Rupert Mallin
https://ellipticalmovements.wordpress.com/2024/10/23/recent-reading-october-2024-a-review/
and reception has been good from everyone.
I plan on keeping the blog but not updating this notes sections (and I am not looking to publish much for now).
Maybe the relaxing tonal play of ‘The Waste Land’ actually is the point of writing it, and it’s just that the awesome machinery behind it, of impersonal allusion and absent authority, is necessary not to sustain that but make it ambiguous in another sense: am I safe from harm – right now?
I’ll make a short note on this collection of Khaïr-Eddine, translated by Jake Syersak. I initially found the translation disappointing, which may have been due to the line-break (though the last poem is mostly prose and it is ambiguous for me), as I found looking at the French – I cannot read French at all – much more exciting until I heard it out loud, when I get a taste of seriousness to Syersak. My favourite line with its translation (ending the first stanza of the last, longest, poem):
su sang qui tue end moi les très vieux suicidaire.
with the blood that slays that age-old suicidal inside of me.
p97
I feel that both poets are shaking here, and I do not feel the translator’s verve is an imposition.
A common thread through my poetry has been making music that is a distorted non-thing: at first to return to the reign of the senses; then as something I delay about the world; then as writing that does not belong.
I looked at Charles Bernstein’s recent LLM collection, enjoyed it, and I have been half thinking about the future of the art, in those terms. LLM is a statistical process, and I don’t think that sort of roughness is how poetry works, let alone how poets write it (however wrong we are).
If you look at The Waste Land and think what sets it apart as the greatest poem in the English language, that all – any way to approach that question, be that historical context or talent – rests on the logic of language. Just to get on with the metaphor: the true and false aspect of logical reasoning/syntax are similar to technique and ultimately disappears (if only for a time while we all catch up). Deliberately indeterminate.
And I reckon that vague statistical reasoning is the exact opposite not only of how poets learn to write poetry but also what it means (however it is curated or presented).
I was thinking of how seldom I am conscious of depth, when writing; usually, it is just surface, style, syntax, structure and shape, I explicitly think of expressively (and remember I shape to express the energy of speech that does not belong on the page), but there are many opportunities to generate both figuration and diction that draw from writing. Take them! In the following test, words 1 (Bunting), 4, 6 (similar sort of poorness) and 8 (a figure – I was thinking of beauty regimes as a butterfly – vaguely thinking of Olson, then aligning its tongue with ‘lashes). I need to read more!
Curved
For low abrupt flight
petal purchase, proboscis
tong.
I was trying a few different things on some of my little verses. Seems as if it is impossible to meaningfully shape these poems to express my own energy: then, it is as if absolutely arbitrary where to “chop up” the poem. Expression is a useful word, and difficult to get around, at least without random processes and kitsch. It makes sense, from what I understand about expressive processes in art in general, that expressing ones own energies is abstract enough to be meaningless (given one expresses affect, in general). Nevertheless, it’s the energy of the poem that should stand out, I feel.
That seems fairly self explanatory, if not “correct”, but it raises the question which to learn with, or from, first. I would suppose (2), with the goal of reaching (1), at which point expression might fall to the necessity of the world’s fragments (which is a fine enough means to restate my blog’s continued babble).